


must be a devil between us

by gavorn



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 02:32:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10584585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gavorn/pseuds/gavorn
Summary: they keep watching him. the little one turns to psylocke, says in a low, accented tone, "this is the guy?"psylocke keeps staring like she's sickened by him. "he used to be."warren wants to tell her to go fuck herself.-surprisingly little kurt for a story about warren&kurt.title from "hey" by pixies.





	

he's tiny. he's the smallest mutant they've ever thrown in there with warren- normally they like seeing him take down bigger, stronger ones. the audience isn't entertained if they don't think it's a fair fight.

which makes it all the more surprising when this one, this tiny, little blue freak-

he doesn't just win the fight, no. he leaves warren crippled, leaves him dragging himself along by the one wing, trying to ignore the agony rippling from his left shoulder. he doubts he would've been able to keep flying in any other situation, but the adrenaline and the threat of going back there are enough to keep him in the air.

it's cold and wet outside.

in weather like this, he would usually find a rooftop, somewhere he'd have a good vantage point. as it is he can barely make it into some abandoned barn before his incinerated wing gives out completely.

after he's sat there in the quiet long enough to be sure he wasn't followed, warren lets himself preen. it's been a while- they didn't give him enough space in the holding cell to stretch his wings, so by the time he got to the cage they were always aching. here, he's got enough room to spread them all the way, smooth down each feather carefully til they're gleaming. his left wing is another matter entirely, the feathers closest to the impact point are charred little husks. they crumble away under his fingers.

warren swears.

on the bright side, though, he doesn't seem to be any less intimidating to humans. he's desperate enough after three days of rainwater and (he wouldn't admit it if you asked) eating mostly insects that he walks down the road, finds a marketplace. he spreads his wings to their full sixteen feet. somewhere between those, the dried blood lingering still and the fact that he's wearing a leather jacket without a shirt (it'd become an improvised bandage) are enough to intimidate the vendors into letting him take what he pleases.

he doesn't take much. bread, and water, and what appears to be beef jerky, and he even manages to snag some antibiotics. he doesn't know if they'll be any help to his wing, but he figures at this point he can't do much more damage.

he injects them around his left shoulderblade, and he hisses when they hit his bloodstream, cold and harsh.

oh, warren realizes. he's made a mistake, hasn't he.

1), warren can't read german.

2), those aren't antibiotics.

on the plus side, warren's wing definitely isn't bothering him anymore.

when he goes back three days later, the seller pleads with him, and from what warren can understand he's out. warren snarls and knocks over a table with his good wing. he takes liquor instead.

that helps, too. that helps a lot.

warren goes for the liquor next time.

the townspeople don't fuss about him anymore- they go silent when they see him coming, give him his usual things and stay quiet til he leaves, but nobody screams, so warren thinks it's an accomplishment.

he tells himself he's content.

he steals a radio from the market next time he goes.

he feels a little better.

-

 

warren's been living in the barn for somewhere around a month when they arrive.

pink bubble, unfamiliar, he's on his guard immediately- not that he's exactly in a fighting state. psylocke looks at him like he's something dirty (which, he is, granted. but she's no better.) warren's gaze hardens. she's always liked pretending she has some kind of moral high ground over him.

the others, though, they're unfamiliar.

one's short- dark skin, sculpted features beneath a shock of white hair. there's something defiant in her eyes, but it's closer to an invitation than to hatred. her eyes glance over his bad wing and her mouth twitches almost imperceptibly before she looks away.

warren swears at them. he's only picked up a few german phrases, but most of them are obscenities, so he's about covered.

the leader, the big blue one, walking in the front, keeps going. perhaps he doesn't understand german.

which is odd, but okay.

so warren says "piss off," voice low and rough from disuse, and throws a bottle at them.

they don't flinch. he makes his way to a closer rafter, knowing how ugly his flight must look, wobbling and dropping.

ugly. warren hates being ugly.

they keep watching him. the little one turns to psylocke, says in a low, accented tone, "this is the guy?"

psylocke keeps staring like she's sickened by him. "he used to be."

warren wants to tell her to go fuck herself.

"i didn't know his wings were..." she trails off. warren's face falls, he can't help it. god, his wings used to be so perfect.

she's looking at him like he's _nothing._

psylocke turns away, says quickly "let's get out of here," and warren feels a rising sense of "well, fuck you too," like he hasn't since escaping the cage.

"his fighting days are done," and fuck, that's even worse. warren might feel sad if he weren't so pissed.

the blue one speaks. "no, they're not." his voice is raspy, low, like the sound of an old metal gate moving.

warren flies down for a closer look. his landing is awkward and he stumbles, pain coursing through his left side. he picks himself up quickly.

"what the hell is this?" he puts as much anger as he can into the words, trying to keep his voice from shaking. he's not _sad_ , god, he's just frustrated and he's tired and he doesn't need people gawking at him, doesn't need them looking at him with pity because he's a bird with a broken wing but he can still break your fucking neck if he wants to.

the blue one stares at him, unflinching. he doesn't seem to need to blink.  it's a little disconcerting.

"i want to give you something," he says, and warren's been in enough alleyways to know where this is going.

he bites down on the "you better be ready to pay" and spits instead "there's nothing you can give me that i want."

"yes, there is," the little one murmurs, soft and more pleased than she should be.

 

he's walking away from them when he feels it.

like a knife in the back, like someone's started at the top of his spine and ripped it open, like every fight he's ever lost at once. he's wondering if this is how he's going to die when he feels the ribs start to crack.

warren's bones are mostly hollow, so it's nothing he hasn't felt before. but this is all of them, and they aren't just breaking, they're ripping their way out through him, tearing apart all the skin and muscle in their way.

he's bent on the floor screaming in moments. the man says, just barely loud enough for warren to make out, "yes, my son."

warren's in too much pain to think about how creepy that is, thank you very much.

(he thinks about it a little bit.)

his wings are _moving_  and for a moment warren thinks they're falling off entirely, thinks how he'd have been so grateful for this as a child. god, he was a fucking idiot as a child.

and then there's metal, but it's working its way _out_ , like it's been inside warren all his life, and he knows for a fact that it wasn't but it's tearing its way through his skin all the same. he feels his wings getting colder, heavier, mechanical.

they're all just watching him, staring at him flailing in agony on the dirty ground. warren wishes he could say this was the most humiliating thing he's ever been through.

and then his wings cease moving for just a second and warren knows it's over, and he collapses, groaning, feeling his body attempt to mend itself.

"rise, my angel," the blue man growls, and warren runs a finger along his wings, feels cold metal and sharp points where feathers had been. "rise," he repeats, and warren looks down at his unblemished torso and wonders _what the fuck is happening to me?_

he flexes a wing and the feathers fly out like throwing stars, embedding themselves in the wall. he can feel the prickle of the new ones forcing their way through.

psylocke is staring at him. nice to know he's special again now.

 

warren reflects later that he's probably the closest to a real knight of any of them, because this isn't his fight. warren has no stakes in this game, but he has a debt that he needs to repay, and he plans to do it however possible.

hey. warren's a liar, and a thief, and a killer, but he's a man of his word.

besides, he doesn't have anywhere else to go. this is the only lead he has besides going back to that fucking barn.

(and there's the little demon, out there somewhere. warren tries not to think about that too much.)

warren doesn't even think he's _mad_ at him, though. because he was doing his best to stay away until _warren_  told him to, _warren_  told him to fight and he did.

he looked more scared than warren was in pain. he looked terrified, even after crippling warren's wing, backing himself into a corner, murmuring "sorry, i'm sorry, i'm sorry".

warren doesn't think about the sincerity in his eyes, either. wide and orange-yellow, and sad, and scared. scared of warren, even though he's the one who almost killed warren, and warren is spending far too much time thinking about this.

he doesn't have much else to spend his time on, though. they rest, because psylocke and storm need sleep like warren, even if the blue- apocalypse- doesn't. he sits and stares at them while they sleep.

(it kind of gives warren the creeps. but he'd sooner die than say that.)

and they pick up _magneto_ , who even warren knows from the news, that wanted criminal that killed a president and tried to get a second one, or something like that. he's quiet all the time- he doesn't speak without being directly addressed, and even then he doesn't always reply.

psylocke is similar, in that she likes to act dismissive and cold as possible. warren's not too bothered by it. he's always thought she was kind of a bitch. he's told her as much, too. she doesn't care. when you find another mutant you usually stick together no matter how much you hate them.

storm, warren likes. once she's done trying to be intimidating she's quite warm and sweet. they talk frequently, to the irritation of their companions. warren's not even sorry- it's been ages since he's had anyone his own age to talk to. even psylocke is at least five years older. the only one he can even think of seeing is the little blue boy, not that he was exactly an option for conversing with. besides, he didn't seem the type to appreciate warren's cold, apathetic sense of humor.

(warren kind of likes the idea of making him laugh, though.)

it's not like he's ever even going to see him again.

-

he does.

at first warren figures he's imagining it, because what are the fucking chances?

he's there, though. he's there, and his eyes are just as wide as warren remembered, but he's wearing some kind of armor now and he looks older, somehow. barely older, like maybe he's emotionally 14 now instead of 12, but older.

warren sees him from a hundred feet up and warren's chest goes tight because he's just as pretty as warren remembered, and really, since when does warren use words like _pretty?_ since when does warren use words like _pretty_  about people he's supposed to _kill?_

(since now, apparently.)

he stops still for a moment, just moving his wings enough to stay midair.

blue-boy looks scared, but determined.  warren is vain enough to admit he'd mind dying less if he were killed by someone beautiful.

not that blue-boy is beautiful, or anything.

warren still doesn't use words like _that_.

(not yet, at least.)

he's diving before he realizes it, more of an instinct than a choice. the boy looks at him, and warren only has a second to wonder if he remembers him before he's gone in a cloud of blue smoke.

warren pulls back. the motion launches a flurry of blades from his wings.

he bites his lip. apparently these wings are determined to do the job.

(even if he isn't.)

(which, he is.)

they block the blows, and warren arcs away, flies towards the entrance of the pyramid. he's in there, warren feels it, warren _knows._

warren's right.

he's wandering the hallways, mumbling to himself.

warren wonders why pretty people are always so fucking _weird_.

case in point: warren.

he dives in fast, catches him by the back of the neck, pins him against a wall. they're still for a fraction of a second but warren's instincts are screaming to do _something_ , to do _anything_.

warren hits him.

immature? absolutely.

he's twisting away, because of course he is, warren just _punched him,_ and warren's hand slips around his tail, holds it tight enough he wonders if it's hurting. he spins to hit him with a wing but he's ducking and he's going up in smoke but warren's still holding on and warren _goes with him_. they're arcing through the air, half flying, half teleporting, only a few feet at a time because he's just trying to dislodge warren (who's kind of on top of him, now, by accident) but warren fucking refuses to let go. he's in this far, he thinks. let it continue, then.

 

they've got their hands around each others' throats now. his two-fingered grip is stronger than warren thought- he shouldn't be surprised considering he used the same tactic last time, but he's surprised nonetheless.

they're still falling and warren hates how much he likes the way his fingers look around the boy's throat.

god, he looks so pretty like this. he shouldn't, warren _knows_  he shouldn't, but warren's always been a little fucked up, always liked pretty boys best when they're bruised and bleeding.

_god,_ he thinks, _god, if you're out there, please don't let me get hard right now._

his prayers are answered.

his hands have been shaken loose and he's just hanging on by his tail again, clinging desperately, and then there's smoke again and warren is pinned behind some kind of grate. the boy twitches his tail out of warren's grasp and says "auf weidersehen" and he's gone.

_what the fuck_ , warren thinks hysterically. _what the fuck was that_. what the _fuck_  was  _that?_

 

it's a few moments before warren can pull himself upright again. he thinks it's from the combination of minor blunt force trauma and being turned on.

god, warren fucking _hates_  being a teenage boy.

he maneuvers so he's standing and attempts to beat the rubble with his wings- he keeps forgetting he can do that, he's used to them being fragile. the idea of using them as bludgeoning tools is brand new to him. it feels a little wrong.

but it works.

they're _leaving._  they're leaving.

and warren's instincts say _no, no, no,_ and he doesn't think it's because he's supposed to be killing them, but he chooses to ignore that.

he does follow them. but he's supposed to. because of the killing thing.

honestly.

he dives in, catches psylocke by the hands. they've practiced this before, used to do stunts like this for fun, back when they had fun. back when she didn't think warren was a stupid punk kid and when warren didn't think she was an uptight bitch.

it seems like a thousand years ago now. before the cage. before warren lost a wing. before warren owed a fucking blood debt to a megalomaniac with a god complex.

he throws her and she's still graceful enough that she lands flawlessly on the roof.

(warren thinks when this is over she should be a gymnast.)

he climbs on himself after her. she's already carving the roof of the jet open, and he swears his heartbeat is still getting faster, swears the chorus of _"yesyesyesyesyes"_ in his brain is getting stronger.

the roof cracks and warren maneuvers his way in front of psylocke, and she gives him a dirty look. his attention is at the front of the plane, at boyboyboyboyboy wantwantwantwantwant.

they're plummeting down now and the ginger girl is screaming "kurt, hurry," and the part of warren's brain that's not concerned about their imminent death is quite pleased to know his name.

she's yelling and boy-kurt- is _moaning_ and warren doesn't think it's possible for someone to hate themself more than he does right then.

and the chorus is getting louder and warren dives and he's not even sure what he's planning to do but it doesn't matter because he's gone, they're all gone, it's just smoke and warren in the front of this plane that's about to crash.

shit, warren thinks. jesus fucking motherfucking christ lover of _shit._

-

 

he doesn't know how long it's been when he wakes up.

everything's hazy, at first. really fucking hazy, like he's on a really shitty trip but it's the lamest bad trip anyone's ever had.

warren blinks.

he's in a hospital, it seems.

maybe not a proper hospital. the walls are a soft grey and there's a carpet under his bed, and there's a lot of machines but they're all rather small and wheeled.

warren's cheek itches.

he reaches his hand up to scratch, noting the brace on his neck. there seem to be matching ones on his chest, and stomach, and just about anywhere else they could conceivably have fit one.

_what the fuck,_ warren thinks, somewhat hysterically.  _what the fuck is this._

he's reached up and is pushing his hair out of his face (it's soft, like someone's been taking care of it, which is kind of strange to think about.)

there's a quiet- but sharp- inhale across the room.

warren's eyes move down to a chair at the end of the room.

it's the kid. boy. kurt.

is warren dead?

is this heaven?

if this is heaven, who the _fuck_ is doing their admissions, because they've really lowered their standards if they're letting warren in.

his eyes are wide again. warren wonders if they always look like that or if he makes him that uncomfortable.

"dr mccoy," he stutters. holy shit, did warren pass out watching star trek? is that what this all has been?

the giant furry blue man from the pyramid walks in.

is this a fever dream, maybe?

"warren?" he asks, tone dry. warren nods. "great," he says. "you're going to be okay. i don't know why kurt went back for you, but," he shrugs, "there's no accounting for tastes, i guess." he smiles. his teeth are sharp. "i'm not a medical doctor," he continues, like he hasn't just said something potentially life-changing. "so i'm not going to make you any promises." warren waits for the second half of the sentence.

"kurt, make sure he takes the pills," is all he says, then he walks out.

well.

alright.

saint peter doesn't have high standards, apparently.

kurt's just staring at warren.

warren decides he needs to be the bigger man, so he speaks.

"what the fuck."

that's not what he meant to say.

kurt's eyes go even bigger, and he scrambles back in the chair, like he wants to be as far from warren as he can.

"i'm sorry," he says, expression nauseatingly sincere. "just, you were in the crash, and i didn't think we should leave you, so i took you," he says apologetically.

_what?_

he's still nervous, biting his lip so hard it might bleed (please, god, don't let it bleed, warren thinks. he can only take so much.)

"okay," he says instead.

kurt freezes.

"what?"

"i said okay."

kurt's mouth opens and closes a few times like a goldfish.

"o-oh," he says, "okay. okay!"

warren assumes that's the end of the conversation, but kurt makes no move to get out of the chair.

"how long have you been there?" warren asks.

kurt's cheeks flush purple. it's an attractive look for him. "since we brought you here."

"which is?"

"...three weeks."

he says it like it's something shameful.

warren's the one staring now. "you're kidding," he says.

kurt shakes his head. "it's just," he starts, "i didn't think you should be alone here, and nobody else- nobody else thought you might need, um." he stops, looks down. he has the longest eyelashes warren has ever seen.

"what?" warren prompts.

"a friend."

coming from anyone else, the words would sound weak, pathetic. coming from kurt they sound utterly and completely sincere.

"okay," warren says. he doesn't blame them. he did just try to kill them all.

"is that okay?" kurt says, looking concerned.

"yes." warren is definitely okay with that.

well, it's a start.

  
  
  



End file.
